


Parabola

by Lightbulbs



Category: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Book 03: Oathbringer Spoilers, Character Study, Don't copy to another site, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Introspection, Post-Book 03: Oathbringer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 08:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20617688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightbulbs/pseuds/Lightbulbs
Summary: Teft’s life is a parabola; it has its highs and lows.[Set after Oathbringer]





	Parabola

Teft needed firemoss like he needed air. Without it, he saw the world in a deoxygenated haze, all blurry edges and bleeding lines. Everything became too much, and he ached.

He’d told himself he’d stop firemoss for good after speaking the ideal to become a full Knight Radiant. He was a better man. He _ had _to be. But sometime between training squires with Lopen and attending Adolin and Shallan’s wedding, he’d made his way into a tavern.

The tavern had smelled of sweat and smoke, and it was hard to ignore the guarded looks from the people inside. He was too important to be here. His rank alone should have kept him away from this squalid little tent.

But firemoss was the bane of all men. All he had to do was flash a broam, and they gave him his moss, piled high in a small bowl and already sparking.

He didn’t remember much after that. He knew he’d stopped before he made it past the second bowl, his fingertips raw and red after his last bout of abstinence had softened his calluses. His spren had pulled him away from the table, moss still aglow. His eyes burned as he stumbled into the night.

Withdrawal hit him the very next day with the ferocity of the Unmade.

Kaladin relying on him was a curse. His spren bonding him even more so. He’d sworn ideals, and in some deep part of himself, he knew he wasn’t an abomination.

And yet.

Ж

_ He’d first heard of the Knights Radiant from his parents. From the start, he’d thought it was a load of crem. People flying, healing, turning wine into blood? _

_ Supposedly the Knights were righteous. They protected people from Voidbringers and made Roshar whole again. Even though they weren’t around anymore, his parents assured him they’d come again—but only if the Voidbringers returned as well. _

_ Bringing them back wouldn’t be easy. Still, his parents said the Envisagers could make it happen. They’d create a beautiful new world. One that was safe, and loving, and filled with the warmth of protection by the Knights. _

_ Teft didn’t believe. But a part of him looked at the glowing spheres, at the bright haze of Stormlight that surrounded their little enclave, and wondered. _

Ж

There were so many new Windrunners. The ranks had swelled as spren after spren bonded with soldiers, each one speaking the Words. Every day, more spheres went dun. Every day, Teft had new men to train.

As his newest squires gathered around him, Teft thought of Kaladin. He remembered the miracle of Kaladin surviving the highstorm, his body bruised and bloody as it was lowered from the stocks. He remembered that moment as Kaladin’s eyes opened and everyone gasped in shock.

At the time, the air had been alive with wonder. How could a man perform such divine acts? Now there was a field of men before him, all staring at Teft in expectation, and _ he _was the dealer of miracles. He had become their Kaladin, their hope for a new world during the breaking of Roshar. What would his parents have thought?

His parents. Teft felt an aching burn in his chest, so full of need for firemoss, for _ anything. _ He’d never lost that burn, but now it was an ember struck alight once more. He struggled to push his thoughts aside, hands trembling.

The squires didn’t notice. His spren did.

His spren was always with him these days, human-sized and haunting him like a ghost. She didn’t look like anybody he’d ever known, but sometimes he’d imagine she _ was _a ghost, one of the dead Envisagers who’d never become Radiant.

She was his hope, and his guilt, and even though he strove to be better each day, it was never easy.

Ж

_ His mother was dead. Now his father was too. _

_ He’d watched the hanging, just as he’d watched his mother’s death. Both were gruesome sights. Both left him shaking. And still, he watched. _

_ It was anger that drove him—not for his father, or even the Envisagers, damned fools that they were. No, this was anger at himself. _

_ What could he do now, with so much rage inside? He’d spent his life watching people die. What use was a man like that? Maybe it would be better if he died, too. It was almost a blessing when recruiters came to town, looking for men to join Sadeas’s army. _

_ He enrolled in the military, searching. Seeking a way to tamp down the hate and rage, and the loss that he never acknowledged, even to himself. _

Ж

Teft walked to the tavern, again. It was his third visit this week, and he felt himself slipping back into old habits.

As he approached, he could feel the eyes of the tavern’s other visitors. In the past, he could have hidden himself away. He could’ve passed as any old soldier, hair streaked with age and his jacket left back in his room. But now…

“You shouldn’t do this, Teft,” said a voice from beside him.

He groaned, not bothering to look. He knew it was his spren, the one who’d pushed him to swear his most painful ideal. Those words he’d spoken, in furious need during the direst of days, were tinged with regret.

As he lingered in the doorway, he started to hear whispers from the tables. Of course it was hard to hide who he was these days—with him being a full Radiant, who wouldn’t know him? Storms, some of the men in here might be ones he’d trained personally.

He didn’t want to look; he couldn’t know. A man’s failings were his own. But somehow, that realization only underscored the fact that only _he_ could stop himself from falling into a firemoss binge that night.

He took a breath, then another. The sweet aching need for moss pulled at him. Sighing, he walked away from the tavern. He could feel his spren’s emotions through their bond: approval, and pride.

Ж

_ Teft stared at the curls of moss in the bowl. They were the red of death, like fresh-spilled blood turned brown after battle. But when he rubbed a pinch between his fingers, they glowed with life. _

_ He’d taken up the mantle of death long ago, betraying the Envisagers before setting out for war. Seeing something alive was… overwhelming. A relief? _

_ Joining the war had been both good and bad for Teft. While he felt a renewed sense of purpose, the deaths he saw only served to surface old memories. He was a good soldier, an excellent sergeant. It was everything else that left him tossing and turning at night. _

_ The air around his fingers shimmered with heat, and he could feel the waves of warmth even as his fingertips burned. Gelta had been the one who’d suggested this visit, something to ground him as the very world seemed to tremble and float away. _

_ He took a hit. Now he was the one floating. _

Ж

Teft breathed in Stormlight, and for a brief moment, the shocking joy of it almost overtook his physical need for firemoss. His cravings disappeared, bringing forth something serene. He felt at peace.

Then the rush disappeared, leaving behind the strength but no longer blocking the desire. The need returned, storm it all, but he held onto the feeling, trying to accept it as man might accept a chronic pain. This was who he was now: a broken man, healing but not healed.

“Men,” he yelled, Stormlight leaking from his lips. He could feel the light coursing through him like battle adrenaline, sharpening his senses. “You have spoken the words.”

The squires stood straighter. Who knew the reasons they’d bonded their spren? Teft had wanted to be healed. It was a selfish wish, and he’d emerged from his bond the same man he’d always been. Was it the same for them? Thinking that their bond was the shackle, not the key?

The squires began to glow, each of them breathing in their own Stormlight.

Ж

_ He’d been here before. Blinking, blearily wondering what had happened in the gap of memory that separated past from present. A stale acid taste in his mouth, a singe to his fingers. _

_ If he were a better man, he might think he’d fallen ill. Maybe he’d been struck down by a Parshendi, only to wake up miraculously alive. Or he was coming out of a merry daze brought on by downing violet wine with friends, and they’d help cure his hangover with a Herdazian wonder brew. _

_ He exhaled, and the stink of his own breath mixed with a burning, smoky smell, making his gut churn. He heaved, but his stomach was empty. He turned on his side, ignoring the grime as he fought against the shakes that threatened to overwhelm him. _

_ There was no lying to himself. He knew. _

Ж

Teft stumbled into the tavern.

It had been a week since his last visit, and he’d done _ so well, _but when Kaladin had returned with his mother and a baby brother in tow, the familial joy radiating from them had crashed into Teft like a wave, sucking him down into his blackest of moods. With that despair came need; with that need came cravings.

“Teft, you’re better than this,” his spren said. She was leaning in close, touching his shoulder with the gentleness of a whisper. Her hand felt cool, even through his thick military jacket.

He shook her off, focusing on his bowl of moss. It was only one bowl. Surely he could do _ one, _just to take the edge off.

He rubbed the moss between his fingertips, letting himself feel the burn as punishment for his dark envy over Kaladin’s happiness. The lad had seen so much, had had such a terrible life. And yet he kept going. That should have been inspirational. That should have been—

His thoughts dissipated into a haze of smoke.

Teft asked for another bowl, and as the moss sparked and crackled, he saw his spren fade from his sight, wisping away like a disapproving sigh.

Ж

_ He was knotted with pain. Every day, pain. Every moment, pain. _

_ His fingers bore the brunt of the fire, even as he scorched his lungs and took in just enough to feel normal again. It was almost a shock to see the blue-white glow of the woman standing beside him. _

_ “Hello, Teft,” she said, and he nearly jumped. _

_ He’d known that firemoss could send a man into senselessness, but had he really inhaled so much as to start seeing things? Was this a death rattle? Some people had those. If he were to go, then better the firemoss take him than a Voidbringer… _

_ “I shouldn’t have had that fourth bowl,” he muttered, stomach roiling. _

_ “You shouldn’t have,” the woman agreed. _

_ He blinked, trying to clear his vision. She was still glowing, but there was an almost ethereal quality to her— _

_ “Oh,” he said. “You’re a spren?” _

_ She nodded and began to speak. _

_ Later still, they made a pact. _

Ж

Teft looked around, wondering where he was. He saw an alleyway, a small path tucked between tents and buildings. He was sitting in the dirt, surrounded by trash as disgusting as he was.

Then he saw the woman. His spren, blue and white and _ frowning. _Her long hair moved in an unseen wind.

“You’re better than this,” she said. Her arms were crossed, and she was glaring at him. It was more emotion than he’d ever seen from her before.

“Kelek’s breath,” he swore, clenching his eyes shut. “That’s a lie.”

“Look at me.”

He didn’t. He looked down, staring at his own filthy clothes. There were dried flecks of vomit on his collar. It was embarrassing, but no less so than being seen talking to himself in an alley. He could see people glancing at him as they passed, then quickly looking away.

For a moment, the quiet felt tangible. Finally, Teft raised his head. His spren didn’t speak until he looked her in the eye. “What did you swear to me?” she said. Her anger had melted away.

He knew she wasn’t talking about the Immortal Words. She was talking about that day, that battle. The ideal he’d spoken right before leading his men through the Oathgate to Thaylen City.

_ I will protect those I hate, even if the one I hate most is myself. _

“It’s hard,” he whispered.

She kneeled down beside him. “I know,” she said. “But that’s what makes it worthwhile.”

Teft sighed. “Is that really true, though?” Then, more quietly, “Will I never be free?”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. “The only one who can free you is yourself. A freedom built of small decisions, made day by day.”

He laughed, which turned into a cough. After his coughing fit subsided, he spat out the sick from his mouth. His body felt as if he’d been crushed by a chull. “’s hard,” he mumbled.

“I know.”

Teft sat on the ground, staring up at the sky. He thought he saw a Windrunner pass by overhead, glowing like the sun rising with the oncoming dawn. Involuntarily, he sucked in a bit of Stormlight. He was surprised to find he had any spheres left. 

He let himself linger in that feeling of hope and magic.

Finally, he stood, brushing himself off the best he could. He stepped into the crowd and began making his way back to the tower, planning for the day ahead while his spren followed behind.


End file.
